


Of Monsters and Men

by FreshMess



Category: Fallout - Fandom, Fallout 3
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Casual breaks in the fourth-wall, F/F, F/M, Lone Wanderer's POV, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-09-23 09:07:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9649136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshMess/pseuds/FreshMess
Summary: The world can be a monstrous place... especially when you're the unwilling protagonist of your own post-apocalyptic adventure.A fourth-wall-breaking tale told from the Lone Wanderer's perspective. Strange abilities and inexplicable oddities abound.





	1. A Day of Firsts

I’ve never seen a ghost. I'm not sure I even believe in them. If they do exist, there might be a few in Vault 101 after what just happened. I take deep, even breaths and ignore the burn in my chest and limbs. Dirt, rocks, and dust crunch a jarring rhythm under heavy soles. I’m not freaking out about how foreign it feels or the loss of folks I’ve known my whole life. There’s only one triumphant thought running through the forefront of my mind.

I knew I wouldn’t die in the vault.

Selfish? Perhaps I should feel anger, fear, even guilt, but instead there’s just an insatiable drive to keep putting one foot in front of the other until I find somewhere safe. Dad might’ve called it destiny or fate pushing me onward. His ardent belief in a divine guiding hand always fascinated me. I’m more inclined to call it survival instincts. Regardless, some lessons stuck with me. Dad taught me to look for the bigger picture when things got tough, so as my boots pound over earth, I’m wondering how I fit into this whole mess and how I’ll survive.

Like the flip of a switch or press of a button, there’s a sudden shift to my perspective. It’s not metaphorical. It’s nothing like the recent realization that Butch is a bully because he gets bullied.

No, I mean a literal shift. It happens fast. I don’t have time to feel the discomfort of my vision being twisted and stretched to new lengths. I certainly don’t have time to process how or why it happened.

I just see and feel her running.

 

* * *

 

The 101 is a gleaming yellow bulls-eye across her bright blue back. It’s a peculiar feeling, seeing oneself in third-person. Similar to an out-of-body experience, except I’m distantly aware of everything the woman in front of me is experiencing. I can feel the perspiration forming on her skin, yet I’m seeing it seep into the fibers of her vault suit from 5 feet behind her.

Maybe I’m going insane. I wrack my brain for a reasonable explanation. What would Dad think? Is this a psychotic break? Or an extreme degree of disassociation? Psychology is not my forte, but this sure as Hell isn’t normal.

When I said I was hoping to see the bigger picture before, this isn’t what I meant.

The sound of her boots grinds out my thoughts on the subject. Her eyes scan the horizon. I’m surprised by the smile tugging her lips at the sight of a large, jagged, grey structure in the distance. The sign was right. To my relief, when she pulls up her Pip-Boy and focuses on the screen…

 

* * *

 

My vision returns to its usual perspective. Megaton ahead! Looks large, and if Dad headed this way he likely stopped there. Someone would’ve seen him. The thought gives me a small measure of hope, but it’s the thought of a bed and hot food that has me downright giddy. Alright, so maybe I am a bit selfish. It's been a long day.

Upon entering, I’m greeted by creaking, stilted metal buildings. The arid wind is a hollow whistle weaving through the ramps and elevated walkways of the town. Dust swirls around my boots and I half expect to see a tumbleweed roll in front of me like in the old westerns I loved so much as a child.

The giant-fucking-bomb sitting in a pool of radiation accompanied by a pink two-headed cow kind of ruins the whole motif though. There’s no John Wayne here to save the day. There is a man in a long, leather duster and an authentic cowboy hat approaching, so at least my cliché projections aren’t entirely bogus. He introduces himself as Lucas Simms, none other than the town’s self-appointed sheriff and mayor. It’s too tempting.

“Pffft, nice hat Calamity Jane.” I shoot him some finger guns and click my tongue against my teeth. He looks less than thrilled.

“Just so long as we understand each other. This here is my town. These are my people. You so much as breathe wrong, and I'm gonna fuckin' end ya.”

Hm. Perhaps I should’ve started with something more cordial. I hold my hands up in the universal sign surrender, but I just can’t stop the next words from leaving my lips.

“Whatever you say pardner,” I drawl. He lifts his chin and looks me over once more with wary eyes before giving me a reluctant nod. The movement draws my eyes back to his rustic hat. We talk briefly about the town and the giant-fucking-bomb, then he wanders off to continue his patrol. I continue eyeing his hat as he disappears around the corner.

My immediate concern is no longer finding my father; it’s getting that glorious rawhide cowboy topper …and defusing the bomb this entire wacky town built itself around, of course.

I watch my own back travel up the rusty ramp to the Craterside Supply and can’t help but wonder if the Wasteland is crazier than I am. It’s a close competition.

 

* * *

 

I spoke with everyone in town like some sort of pre-war religious zealot. Have you seen this man? Do you have work? I do have work now, which is good, but I haven’t gotten information on Dad yet. Moriarty definitely knows something, even if he’s going to make me pay for it, which is all the more reason for me to help the community out with odd jobs. First I’ll help Moira, then fix the pipes around town, next defuse the bomb, speak to Moriarty again about finding Dad, free Gob and Nova, and finally find Lucy’s brother in Arefu.

First things first! Off to the Super Duper Mart. Getting there is a fairly simple journey, however once I reach the parking lot, it’s no longer a walk in the park.

I watch a seemingly innocent man die because I can’t reach him in time. Crazed mongrels tear at his limbs, then turn on me. I narrowly escape their snapping jaws by jumping atop the remains of an old car. When I kill the last one, the man is already going cold in a pool of his own blood. My stomach sinks when I stop and search his corpse with a silent sorry. Something about the encounter feels like a bad omen. I’m no quitter though. I need to help Moira, need these caps, and most of all, I need to find my Dad.

I creep through the aisles of the not-so-abandoned store. Bodies hang awkwardly in chains from the ceiling like macabre marionettes. The stench of rot and filth seems to thicken with every step. I hear voices, clearly not friendly ones. The people here are either doped-up psychos or cannibals by the looks and smells of the place. Could be both.

They wear rag-tag armor and patrol makeshift walkways of precariously balanced planks. I slip past them, crouching behind shelves, counters, and cash-registers. Unfortunately, my boot bumps a shopping cart, which nudges a can. The resulting grimey metallic clattering has me cringing and cursing my own negligence. I can hear the stumbling of junkies alerted to my presence.

I wish I could say I fired first, but I waited despite knowing what was coming. The first one to spot me ran forward with a crowbar, while another fired at me from afar. I used the whole magazine on the closest target and still only hit him twice. He’s enraged, running at me while I reload frantically. I draw my gun up again and fire until it clicks empty. He drops dead at my feet. I’m out of ammo.

I switch to my childhood bat and try not to think about the families these people may or may not have. Another enemy is still firing. Her shots go wide. I take the opportunity to snake towards her and lunge, aiming for her head. My bat connects once. The second swing connects in near unison with a volley of shots she lands in my shoulder.  

I cry out and stumble back. My arm thrums with searing pain and I grit my teeth to silence my own whimpers as I examine the wounds. Two of the shots went clean through, but there isn’t an exit wound for the third. No time to dig the bullet out either. When I notice my enemy trying to crawl away, I trudge back and finish her off. My arm throbs distractingly and the blow is weak, but enough. I stumble away from the bodies, then grudgingly return to loot any desirables one-handed. I find ammo and curse when I don’t find any stimpaks.

“WHO’S THERE?!” a red tag on my Pip-Boy advances toward me from behind. I scuffle around a corner attempting to hide from the fiend only to find another foe I’d completely missed. Jeeze, how many are there?!

I pull up my gun, but my wounded arm is wavering and slow. The blow knocks me off my feet before I can even fire. As I hit the ground, I realize I’d never reloaded anyway.

My body pulses with a trauma I’ve never felt before. An agonizing warmth spreads throughout my abdomen. The thrumming in my arm is gone though. In fact, I can’t feel my arm at all, and I certainly can’t move it. My other hand is slick and my gun is heavy; it slips from my grasp. This can’t be it. What a shitty ending.

I don’t see any tunnel of light, flaming caverns, or heavenly gates, but the memories and pain stay with me when I blink back into existence.

I’m confused and disoriented. My senses flare with the memory of fatal wounds. Fear and phantom pain roil my stomach. I go out into the parking lot and pace. I switch to my third-person view to observe my surroundings, looking for clues.

How am I alive? The dogs I’d killed earlier are still sprawled lifelessly across the parking lot while the raiders inside are alive and well. It makes no sense. Not that I’m anything other than grateful to be alive, but did I imagine the whole thing? Definitely going insane… maybe the ambient radiation out here is getting to me _._ The Geiger counter on my Pip-Boy tells me I’m wrong, so I shake myself and carry on as if nothing happened.

When I flash back into existence the second time, after getting blown up by a grenade, I throw-up on my own boots. This is some seriously twisted déjà vu. I’ve always prided myself on a high pain-threshold and strong stomach, but this is different. This is death, and it’s more than a little overwhelming.

I’m pacing again. Shaky hands pull a Nuka-Cola from my rucksack. I need to calm my stomach and rid myself of the lingering taste of bile. The bubbles swirl into my mouth as I tip the bottle back and there’s a pleasant, sticky, burning, tingle when I swallow. I top it off with a meek smile as I pocket the bottlecap.

Sometimes the simplest things are the sweetest.

Burning curiosity and seething determination push me forward, but I move cautiously this time. It takes another two hours to kill all the raiders without biting the bullet again. Third time’s the charm. I still don’t understand what happened. I take notes in my Pip-Boy after clearing the area, hoping something will stand out. I save the date, location, time, and personal status. Nothing seems outlandish or exceptionally important.

I loot everything I can carry and start off toward Megaton trying to ignore the voice in my head telling me I’m surely going mad. Or is that an actual voice? I swear I hear someone calling out for help. I only hesitate briefly before switching to my third-person view. Might as well take advantage of all angles.

A little boy is running up to her... er... me from around a hillside of rubble up ahead _._ Huh. I switch my view back to normal. Maybe I’m suffering from visual and auditory hallucinations now too.

“Please! Find my Papa and make him come back,” Bryan begs when he reaches me. His plea strikes a chord in me. Obviously I decide to see the whole thing through. How bad could ‘those things’ be anyway?

Apparently pretty damn bad. His father is dead and his hometown is over-run with irradiated flaming-breathing ants from the depths of Hell. Okay, more like the Marigold Station, but once I die in a fiery blaze with the smell of my own burning flesh in my nose, I find the resemblance uncanny.

Hm, maybe Dad’s religious fervor rubbed off on me a little more than I thought.

When I respawn, this time _outside_ of the Super Duper Mart and Bryan Wilks is running towards me again in the distance, I take deep breaths and calmly flip through my Pip-Boy, eyes darting over read-outs and menus. I still have all the looted goods from the market. I’ve manifested in the exact moment I’d last saved my status and whereabouts.

I’m… immortal? Some strange kind of vault-unvampire?

I shiver. Immortality should count as at least two points towards the old crazy tally, but then again I haven’t been out here very long. I doubt I’m truly immortal and who knows what else I’ll discover about the Wastes… or myself. The child advancing towards me gets closer. I know I can’t bring Bryan’s dad back, but I can at least clear out the town and help him find a new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, suggestions, and advice welcome!  
> This is my second Fanfic. I wanted to write a Fallout 3 story that experimented with point of view... Not sure if I'm entirely pleased with the outcome, but it's been fun to write :]  
> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoy!
> 
> Updates will likely be slow after the first few chapters.


	2. Perks and Quirks

Gunshots echo through the old steel confines of the Marigold Station. I watch the crimson stain spread through the white fabric of Dr. Lesko’s lab coat in morbid fascination. It’s a shame his morals weren’t strong enough to keep him on the right track. He’s not the first person I’ve met whose best intentions fell to the wayside in pursuit of an obsession.

He is the first person I’ve killed for such recklessness.

The first I’ve killed for a reason other than self-defense.

The man at my feet was as much a monster as the Queen Ant he’d created. He didn’t control his variables and there were dire consequences. The burning remains of Grayditch are a testament to his callousness. The smoking corpses and Bryan Wilk’s tear-streaked, soot-smudged face are not sights I’ll soon forget. In fact, the last 48 hours have been pretty unforgettable.

I don’t feel regret for killing him and it makes me wonder what I’d do if I faced Almoldovar again. He ordered Jonas to be killed as surely as Dr. Lesko had killed the folk of Grayditch. The thought is unsettling and I push it away as I crouch down to pick up his wire-rimmed glasses. I may not regret my actions, but the satisfaction I have feels empty.

I glance around the room. Test tubes, beakers, the glow of a computer screen; everything is visible to me in striking clarity despite the dim light. When I rise up from the floor up, it’s with newly possessed grace. The doctor had true potential. The serum he injected me with is working wonders on my perception.

He could have done great things, terrible things. Now he won’t be doing any things ever again.

I quietly wind my way through the tunnels and head for the surface wondering what I’m going to say to Bryan. I’ve accepted a certain level of responsibility in undertaking this, but the possibility of having to take care of the kid honestly scares me. I’m not much older than one myself and so far my life choices in the Wasteland have been far from safe.

I end up spending the night. Bryan takes the news better than I probably would have at his age. It doesn’t make it easier though. We don’t speak very much before passing out since we’re both drained from the day’s events. As much as respawning upon death is great and all, because what’s not to love about immortality yada yada yada... it also means my day was extremely long, repetitive, and full of excruciating pain. My feet are practically dragging by the time I find a torn-up mattress to collapse on. The smell that wafts out from it and the questionable stains are unimportant. I’m out cold for the next few hours. When I wake, Bryan and I share meal from the supplies I scavenged at the Super Duper Mart.

“I got all this stuff for a friend, but we’ll consider breakfast a finder’s fee,” I say with a conspiratorial wink, then add, “just pinky promise me ya won’t tell Moira if you ever meet her.”

I hold out a curled fist with my pinky finger extended towards him. He blinks, and the expression looks innocent and naïve amidst the sooty smudges.

“What’s a pinky promise?” He asks.

“Oh, it’s only the most sacred of the promises! A pinky promise can NEVER be broken,” I say with emphatic exaggeration. Bryan seems amused by my display and tips his head in thought.

“Never?” He asks. I nod with my hand still extended.

“I’ll pinky promise to never tell, if you pinky promise to help me find my Aunt Vera,” he mirrors my hand and looks at me with wide eyes. The vulnerability in them makes my heart stutter in my chest for a moment. I don’t hesitate. I just reach out to squeeze his pinky with my own and shake on it.

“Of course kiddo! Do you know where I can find her?”

“She lives in Rivet City,” Bryan says simply, with a look of relief. I nod in response and hope the smile I give him is reassuring and doesn’t betray that I have absolutely no idea where to find the place. I give him a gun and some food, then a hug. I sling my bag on my back, and when I drop my hand, he grabs it gently.

"Wait, what's your name?" He asks with a tug. I'm rather flustered, cheeks turning ruddy. After spending so much time with him, I'm ashamed I didn't offer it sooner.

"My name is Sibyl, but no one really calls me that." I explain and this time I offer him my whole hand, not just my sacred pinky.

"I go by Byl." He snickers and shakes my hand.

"Bill? Huh... never met a girl named that before."

I find myself rolling my eyes and smiling back as I wave and leave.

When I return to Megaton, I head straight to the Craterside Supply. Moira is delighted at my report about the Super Duper Mart and the Food Sanitizer she gifts me with is nifty. I only have a moment to marvel at it before she’s off again, talking about the next part of the chapter. Another job.

“I still need to study a living specimen with radiation poisoning.”

Her tenacity earns a deep bark of a laugh out of me. I never would’ve considered being someone’s guinea pig, but since death eludes me why not experiment a little? It’s going to hurt, I have no doubt about that. It’s less strenuous than fighting the apocalyptic monsters some people have become though. I save my present information in my Pip-Boy as I step out the door. I’m thinking of Dr. Lesko and Moira when I wander down the ramps and wade into the pool of irradiated water. It’s astounding how two people of science can be so different in their methods.

The liquid soaks into my boots, between my toes and into my pants. I stand with my legs apart and squared with my shoulders. I can feel the hot effects of the radiation everywhere. Heat sweeps over my skin, itching and burning as it seeps into the molecules of my being. I glance down at my Pip-Boy and watch the points ticking up on the Geiger counter. I ignore the intent stare of Confessor Cromwell. 

Instead I puzzle over the Brahmin chewing its cud. Does it need to eat a lot more because it has two brains? My stance begins to slouch. The buzz along my skin has sunken in and now it vibrates through me with a dull resonating throb. My Pip-Boy is screeching warning beeps.

“Basking in Atom’s glow I see. You must be quite devout.”

I didn't see him move. Cromwell is suddenly much closer to me though. I must be really out-of-it. A few responses drift through my head, but none stay long enough for me to grasp, so all that comes out of my mouth is, “hhmMMm.”

My whole body aches, especially my joints. My radiation saturated limbs feel dense and heavy. If I wait much longer I won’t make it up the ramps to Moira’s. Time to go! I haul myself out of the pit and my view slides into third-person without any prompting or warning.

* * *

Byl stumbles at the sudden shift, but catches herself. She walks unsteadily past the Children of Atom without another mumble. Her cadence looks more drunk than injured and the radiation she's absorbed is betrayed only by her expression, which swings back and forth from pinched with pain to completely slack along with her strides. The Pip-Boy is still screeching as she hobbles back into the Craterside Supply. Moira is at her side, immediately taking her arm.

“I’m a bit past 600,” the mumbles strike again.

“How do you feel dear? Go ahead and lean on me now,” Moira shoots a glare at her bodyguard, still leaning against the wall motionless and alert, “why are you just standing there? GRAB THE SYRINGE FROM THE WORKBENCH GUY.”

“I itch and burrrn," she slurs and swallows thickly before adding with a dopey grin, “glowing would’ve been preferable.”

Moira snorts. She begins examining Byl's skin, poking sores, pricking her with needles. The bodyguard approaches with a particularly large syringe. Its contents are an inky dark green that looks very uninviting. I consider protesting, except I can't seem to get Byl's lips to form the words right now. She yips involuntarily when the needle sinks into the bend of her arm a moment later, then she's slumping over, leaning into Moira and...

* * *

 I'm out. I wake up again later with some new healing abilities thanks to the concoction Moira used on me. Of course, these abilities require me to absorb radiation. There's a price for everything.

I take a day to recuperate fully and fix the pipes around town. Sure, it’s good to relax for the sake of my body, my mind never quits racing in the meantime though. It leaves me with a surplus of pent up energy eager for an outlet. When the evening rolls around, I’m wound up tight and too tense to attempt diffusing a bomb.

I’m craving a distraction, some way to unwind. That something should be stronger than the irradiated soda I’ve grown to love. Since death and I are better acquainted, stale tobacco and liquor don’t sound so bad nowadays.

When I approach the Saloon, Moriarty is leaning against the rickety railing out front, reeking of booze. Perhaps he’ll be too far gone to notice me. Perhaps he’ll tip right over the edge, shouting my dad's whereabouts in a drunken stupor as he falls to his death. One can only dream.

“An’ back she comes! So… just thirsty today? Or are ya ready ta pay me fee? Dear Dad’s not goin’ ta find himself y’know,” he taunts with that obnoxious, sing-songey voice of his.

“Is the fee still 100 caps?” I’m hoping he’s realized the error of his ways.

His grin widens, “well, it was when you refused. Now the price has gone up due to demand. 200 caps.”

I don’t even bother with a response. I can hear him hooting and cackling at my expense as the door closes behind me. I want to find my dad, but I can’t bring myself to pay that asshole. It’s a matter of principle. As far as I know, my principles can’t point me in the direction of any useful leads though, so I’m at an impasse. Just another addition to my list of challenges. Gob is cleaning a glass and looks up with concern etched into his ragged face. He relaxes with recognition when he spots me, then makes a beckoning gesture.

“Oh man… I’m glad to see you,” he greets me and sets the glass down.

“Howdy Gob,” I say warmly and reach over the bar to pat him gently on the shoulder in a sort of half-hug. The look on his face is comical, frozen in wide-eyed surprise. He had a similar expression when I shook his hand during our introduction, although it had been more wary, like he’d been expecting a trick of some kind. Or maybe a kick or some kind. I know the abuse is why physical contact always seems to startle him, but I see no reason to stop. I lean back and lightly slap some caps on the counter as I examine him.

“…Scotch please?” He blinks at me, then retrieves a bottle.

“No Nuka this time eh? Rough day?” He raises what’s left of his brow and pushes the glass in front of me along with the bottle. My eyes are still tracing his skin.

“Looks like I’m not the only one,” I say apologetically, “Did you fall down Moriarty’s stairs again?”

Ghoulification makes the flesh rough, torn, and discolored, but what I’m seeing isn’t his normal complexion. Fresh bruises I’d guess, although his capillaries take damage differently. He notices me studying him. I shake my head as I pull out a pack of smokes I’d scavenged. I put a cigarette between my lips and pat my pockets for a flip-lighter.

“Yeah,” Gob rubs his jaw with a wince, “He’s been especially nasty lately… but it’s good to see a friendly face.” I offer him another smile and a cigarette.

“Naw,” he waves me off, rag still in hand, “he catches me smoking, he’ll think I’m slacking.” Gobs eyes sweep to the door as he explains. They return to me once he’s certain the devil he’s speaking of won’t appear. He keeps himself busy polishing another glass.

“Someday soon I’ll get you to join me.” I flip the lighter open and hold the flame to the tip of the cigarette. When I inhale, the smoke is rough, scraping along my throat and sinuses until I feel my lungs seizing. A convulsive cough has me sputtering for air, red-faced and teary-eyed in front of a rather amused Gob.

“You make it look so appealing,” he chuckles and places the cup on the counter. I huff at him and sniff at my booze curiously before recoiling slightly from the smell. Perhaps the alcohol will chase away the scratchiness in my throat though? I take a sip and try not to scrunch my face at the bitter flavor. It’s strong, noxious, and smoky with a mildly sweet, earthy undertone. Gob wanders away to take a drink to sinister looking man in a suit. By the time he comes back, my shoulders have a bit of a slouch and my finger is absently tracing the rim of the glass as I stare down into the amber liquid. 

“My dad used to drink Scotch on special occasions.” I take another, larger face-pinching swig. I refuse to waste the caps I’d died for earlier. If I can die 3 times in a day, I can finish a glass of Scotch.

“You carrying on his tradition?” Gob asks.

“Perhaps… I’m not dead, so I guess that’s cause for celebration.” My strained smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes. Technically, my existence is a slap in the face to death and the dangers of the Wasteland. I’d be celebrating my luck, except I know all these perks and strange abilities have a price I don't fully understand yet.

 “Wish I was celebrating finding my father instead,” I mutter. Gob shakes his head.

“You must have the caps for the info if you keep buyin’ drinks here. Just pay Moriarty. I won’t think any less of you.”

“Moriarty upped the price from 100 to 200 caps, which I have, but next time it’ll probably be 300 caps. Just seems pointless,” I say with a dejected shrug. Gob’s murky eyes look oddly pensive. He glances at the door again before his gaze slides back to me.

“Look kid… you didn’t hear it from me, but Moriarty has a terminal in his room. If someone was looking for info, that’d be the place to start.” He moves on to polishing another glass when I raise my head and blink at him.

“Don’t look at me like that. I ain’t said nothin’.” He shuffles away to grab Jericho another beer. Nova is leaning over the bar in front of the ex-raider when Gob places the bottle on the counter between them. The ghoul’s eye aren’t on the drink or the man, and the way his fist clenches when he pulls his hand away from the beer speaks volumes. Learning lots of new things today apparently. 

“Huh,” I huff and toss back the last of my Scotch. When Gob comes back, we talk more, I drink more. He tells me about his old hometown Underworld; a whole city of ghouls. I wonder if it’s on the way to Rivet City and if my dad has been to either place. When I look up, I can't help but pity Gob as he watches Jericho climb the stairs with Nova. I shake my head and look over at Moriarty's room. Apparently even my alcohol-addled brain can recognize an opportune moment.


	3. Bombs Away

Getting into Moriarty’s terminal is simple upon a search of the room. Password in the closet. Seems a bit cliché to me, like hiding a key under a desk or doormat, but the Saloon owner is a crazy old bastard.

His terminal entries remind me of a diary with all the terrible town gossip he’s gathered. Jericho is a possible rapist. Doc Church may have worked as a medic for slavers. Leo is a junkie? I’m not sure what to do with the information without circumstantial details or evidence. I don’t dwell on it, just file it somewhere in the back of my mind.

No guarantees on how much of it is true, yet there’s an entry with my father’s destination. Apparently I’ll be heading to Galaxy News Radio soon. With any luck, my dad will actually be there and I can tell Three Dog to fix his shit radio signal.

I leave the room in a crouch, somewhat obscured from the patrons by the bar. I stand up as if I’d found something I’d dropped earlier. Seems casual right? Good enough for most folk anyway.

Except the somewhat sinister looking suit-clad gentleman in the corner. He’s beckoning me over, much like Gob had earlier, along with a smirk that seems a little too-friendly to be sincere.

My mind races as my feet carry me towards him. Did he hear what Gob told me? Maybe he noticed me go into Moriarty’s room? I can only hope they aren’t friends.

His glasses glint in the flickering light when I tilt my head to get a better look at him.

“My, my. Just when I had all but given up hope, you come waltzing in,” he croons, reaching out and taking my hand. The movement is quick. A startled snort slips out of me to my embarrassment.

He raises a brow at me, then gently turns my hand over in his own.The nerve. Moira, Gob, and Bryan are the only people I’ve met who voluntarily touched me since I left the vault. It’s a disturbingly familiar action coming from a complete stranger. I’m not sure what he’s looking for, but he must’ve found it.

His teeth flash an unsettling smile. Then he raises my hand to his lips and bestows a gentle kiss upon my skin. I barely resist the urge to wipe it on my pant-leg when he releases me.

“My dear girl, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

He lifts his chin and presses a hand to his oddly clean lapel, “I am Mr. Burke. You are not a resident of this putrescent cesspool and that makes you rather… valuable.”

The vague implication is ominous at best. I’m pretty sure this guy is the weirdo Moriarty mentioned in his terminal. I don’t agree with Moriarty on anything really, but I gotta admit this Burke fellow creeps me out. My cheeks bunch, pulling up a taut, nervous smile that almost rivals his in its insincerity.

“Well Mr. Burke, you’ve piqued my interest. Please, continue.”

He carries on with his pretentious eloquence, divulging to me his plans and promises to wipe Megaton off the map for his employer; as if the wasteland would be a better place without Moira, Simms, Walter, Gob… Moriarty?

Hm.

To be honest, if we were just talking about The Saloon owner, everything would be hunky dory. Evidently, Mr. Burke isn’t as discriminatory in his judgement of people though. This guy is a salesmen of death and he’s got the full ensemble:

Suit, tie, and a briefcase full of bad intentions.

In exchange for my “service”, he offers me a bunch of caps and a room with a view from Tenpenny Tower. Wherever the hell that is.

The smile on my face stretches wider, into something tense and predatory. Burke must think the prey is Megaton because convincing him I’ll help is pie. It makes my blood boil, but there are too many people to risk shooting him here. When he leaves town tonight, that’s when I’ll strike.

I log all of my information in my Pip-Boy when I step out the door. My feet pause just on the other side, leaded with the weight of my decision.

What’s happening to me? I sound like a self-righteous murderer.

However, my desire to kill Burke is tangible and as real at the bomb in the center of town or Dr. Lesko rotting away in Marigold Station.

I don’t want to be making decisions like this. I only want justice.

Which is why my feet are leading me over the ramps until I find Simms nearby Walter’s place. As Megaton’s protector he deserves to know about the plot. When I tell him, he’s rearing to go. Together, we head back up to the Saloon to apprehend Burke. He sneers at me over Simms shoulder when the sheriff confronts him directly and demands his cooperation. I know getting the law involved was the right thing to do, yet the hair on the back of my neck rises when Burke gives Simms that cold smile of his, all politeness and business. He complies and rises from his chair with ease.

When Simms turns to lead the way, giving the businessman his back, he doesn’t see the smile twist Burke’s face. He never sees the silenced 10mm.

A thick, hot spray of blood and brains splatters across my face. _Fuckingwhattheshit-isinmyeye?!_

I’m shocked by Burke's swift and savage reprisal. I squeak when his hand snakes out and grabs me by the front of my vault suit. He drags me forward to the barrel of his handgun, looks me in the eyes, and fires point-blank into my upper chest 3 times.

My throat wetly convulses, choking on hot liquid that should be air. My lungs are filling with blood. The look on his face, the seething hatred at my betrayal, is the last thing I see before my vision fades.

I snap back into existence just outside the Saloon. My stomach churns. Shaky hands brace against the sheet metal wall for support. The cool night air chills the perspiration forming on my skin.

Deep breaths now. Don’t puke. Simms isn’t in my eye anymore.

I make it one step forward before my pep talk fails me and my stomach does too. I lose my Scotch to the dust and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. Note to self: get Abraxo.

“Whassa matter girly? Can’t hold yer drink?” Moriarty’s laugh disappears into the Saloon. I grumble in annoyance, but not at Moriarty’s misplaced judgements or the wasted liquor.

_Megaton isn’t safe. Simms can’t handle this._

Music is playing scratchily inside the bar. People are laughing. The man who would murder both Simms and I – er, make that the whole town – well, he’s enjoying a drink and waiting patiently for me to arm a detonator on the bomb to blow this whole place away.

I push away from the wall and head down the ramps to the bomb this time. The alcohol is a distant fuzz, barely noticeable since I emptied my stomach. Which is kind of a silver lining I guess?

The panel pops open to reveal the inner workings of the destructive device. My eyes dart over the various wires, ports, and connectors. A little shiver slithers up my spine. Explosives always morbidly fascinated me. I study the configuration for about 15 minutes before I start my tinkering. I’m familiar with the hardware, but obviously I’ve never worked on an actual nuke before. I disconnect a series of wires and remove them. Next I sabotage the ports so it won’t matter if the wires are replaced. Just a bit more tweaking and…

Ta Da! The detonator has been disarmed. There’s nothing I can do about the radioactive material, but that’s just life these days.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

When I approach Simms this time, it’s to tell him that Megaton is safe from the bomb threat. I say nothing of Mr. Burke. His mouth opens and closes a couple times, then he’s making his way to the center of town. I don’t blame him for being skeptical, I just grin and follow. He checks the nuke and his eyes brighten. He looks me over with a new air of approval and nods his head.

“I’ll be damned! You did it didn’t you? You disarmed that thing!” He claps me on the shoulder, beaming brighter than any of the lanterns in town.

“Y’know, I was wrong about you! That attitude threw me at first, but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Hell, why don’t you move in?”

“I don’t know Simms… shouldn’t we get to know each other a bit more?” He blinks at me, then shakes his head.

“Ha. Here’s your reward, a key, and the deed to that empty house up there.”

He turns, pointing to a sizable building near the entrance. Then he’s shoving caps, keys, and a slip of paper into my hands. He’s been carrying all this around in his pocket?

Yeah, I’m one to talk.

I look up at Simms, standing in his goofy hat and duster with the shiny star pinned to his chest. I look closer and see the gray speckling his beard. The lines etched into his face from years of worrying over an explosive issue he couldn’t handle himself. I’m glad the weight is gone.

I understand this isn’t a simple gift he’s giving me.

Simms respects me now and I’m going to have a reputation around here once word gets out. I’m not sure how to feel about the unspoken development yet; about having a home.

“Toss me the hat and you can keep the caps.”

“It’s worth more than caps,” he grins, gripping his hat brim briefly between finger and thumb as he tips his head, then departs calling over his shoulder, “you’ve got nothing to bargain with newcomer.”

Shit.

He’s right... I’ll have to resort to more creative methods in the future if I really want that hat.

My boots tread over dust and up the ramps again. Not to Moriarty’s though. Instead, my curiosity drives me to the entrance of a stilted, unoccupied building I now own. I put the key in the lock and turn until it clicks home.

I push the door open and step inside, only to be greeted by a Mr. Handy unit, sawblades at the ready.

This place is very much occupied!

Its eyestalks bob, apertures opening to focus on the paper clutched in my hands like a shield.

“Oh, my apologies madame!” It tucks the bladed limbs away and withdraws its eyestalks a bit, apertures contracting, “I mistook you for an intruder! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Wadsworth, your personal robotic butler.”

“Byl, the new owner of this,” I glance around the spacious, barren interior, “fine domicile.”

“I would have cleaned up a bit more if I’d known you were arriving today.” He proceeds to inform me of all of his functions, from filtering water to telling jokes.

My fingers skim the handrail when I climb the stairs. This is a veritable mansion compared to my dwelling in the vault. Two rooms, a kitchen, a living-room, and a loft. All for me. The metal walls and floors give it an air of familiarity. As does the Mr. Handy unit, even if Wadsworth is more polished and efficient than Andy. Apparently he styles hair too… probably better than ‘The Butcher’. I’ll always remember the day Wally Mack knocked ol' Butch out after going for a trim and leaving with a half-assed crew cut.

I think it was Butch’s idea of a joke. His crooked nose the next day was a much better one. Not that I approve of any of the Tunnels Snakes’ behavior, but I’d rather see them picking on each other than the vault residents, harmless sheep that they are.

Although, I likely won’t see Butch, Wally, or any of the vault residents ever again. The thought hits me like a slug to the gut. I drop down onto the mattress in the bedroom with a thump.

“…Are you alright madame? Would you like a bottle of water?”

“No thanks,” I wave off Wadsworth, “I just… need time to process.”

My hands clench, twisting the sheets. This is the cleanest bedding I’ve seen in a week. When I curl up on my side, face half-pressed to the bed, it’s the smell that gets me.

Dust.

In the wasteland, it’s everywhere. People sleep in the dirt, eat in the dirt, live in the dirt, and often die in the dirt. It’s just a part of life. The tickle in my nose is not unpleasant though. There’s something comforting to me about the scent, discernable underneath the chemical smell of abraxo. A reminder that there is no escaping the harsh realities of life.

These aren’t vault sheets.

They’re my sheets.

This is my home and that’s my Mr. Handy unit, whirring away, commenting on the strangeness of human CPUs.

I’ve earned all this on my own and I have the power to pursue other goals and ambitions as I see fit. I can find my father, get Brian a home, help Gob and Nova. This is just the beginning, the first step in a long journey to help mankind overcome the obstacles preventing a better future.

There’s comfort in the freedom of my newfound independence, even if it is dirty, rough, and terrifying.

I have time to clean it up, smooth the edges, and refine it. Gotta start somewhere right? Actually, I’ve already started. I’ve got a lead on my father and a new home. Unpacking, restocking supplies, and repacking my bag again doesn’t take long. Yet I can’t bring my boots to cross the threshold and head for DC just yet.

At this point, a final goodbye to Burke is in order since I prefer to finish what I start.

“Wadsworth!”

I turn around at the foot of the stairs. The robot gusts his way out of one of the bedrooms and to the top of the staircase.

“Yes Madame?”

“I think I’d like a haircut please! I’ve got a date with fate.”  


End file.
